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There are reds that shine and sparkle, dull pinks and greys, blues, hard and brittle, rubber and laces, tongues. Rows upon rows, boxed or tied.

Our fingers run across them, deciding.

“Any pair you want” I tell her. “Any pair, this time.”

They light up, the ones she chooses, copper and flushed pink, as she does, any possible moment, like the heavens.

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Two weeks from now. Two weeks I have a school age child, a fortnight, a sigh in the lung that is a life. Exhaled so simply, as I remember her squirming left foot, covered in acrylic as I pressed for a footprint. That same foot I helped into a Size 10 shoe today, stretched over the velcro, patted for good measure before letting go.

Letting go was so much easier when I had nothing more to worry about than a little purple paint on a 25 year old shag carpet.

The magic of these new things, shoes, backpacks, crayons, that perfect dress. Talismans of success, of closure, of freedom. The metamorphosis is always accompanied by new wings. I want to cover her in newness, to build her up, shape her, strengthen her.

But I’ve done that for 5 years now, and she needs at least one leg to stand on.

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“Do you know who I am?!” she sings at the saleslady in Mexx

“NO!” she smiles

Vivian pauses, surprised.

“I’m VIVIAN!” and rushes into her arms to hug her like a member of her own family.

Wings have formed already, wet, moist with yesterday. I won’t touch them though. Somethings get better all by themselves.